by Magnus Mills
“Whatever do they need all those for?” he would ask anyone he thought might listen to him. Nobody did. They came to the Crown to drink, and on the nights Leslie Fairbanks played they just drank more. This was rural Scotland. There was nothing else to do.
The amplified accordion sounded like some endless, mournful dirge as I approached through the drizzle that evening, but the lights of the Crown Hotel were too bright to let that discourage me. Once inside the door a more convivial noise took over, as Leslie Fairbanks’s endeavours were augmented by the combined racket of drinks being served, laughter and shouted arguments. The place was packed, bodies pressed against each other in a churning mass of persons bent on enjoying themselves despite the odds. Meanwhile, Jock bawled over the tops of people’s heads and kept general order at the bar, assisted when things got especially busy by a girl called Morag Paterson. Sales always increased marginally while Morag was behind the counter, but she was only helping out and most of the time she remained at the other side amongst the customers. Seated on one of the barstools nearby was Mr Finlayson, the greenkeeper at the local golf course. His three sons also drank here. One of them was Tam. He was sitting at a big table with his brother Billy and some of their cohort, so I worked my way across the room. They watched me approach and I saw Billy ask Tam something. Tam nodded, then looked up at me as I joined them.
“Alright to sit here?”
“If you like.”
They made a space for me and I sat down, glancing round. “No Richie?”
“We’re not married, you know,” Tam replied.
“No, I know,” I said. “I just wondered where he was, that’s all.”
Tam looked at me. “Rich can’t come out tonight. He’s got to pay the instalment on his guitar.”
“Oh, I didn’t know he played the guitar. What sort?”
“You’ll have to ask him, won’t you?”
“Yeah, ‘spose.”
I tried to engage Tam in some conversation about fencing, how many miles he’d done, and where, and so forth, but he didn’t seem interested in talking. Judging by the number of empty glasses on the table he’d already had quite a lot to drink before I got there. Also, it wasn’t easy competing against the continual din in the background, especially when a loud ‘clunk’ signalled that a microphone was being plugged into Leslie Fairbanks’s amplifier. I shortly became aware of a man’s voice, apparently singing. Someone had got hold of a mike from behind the bar, and was standing next to Leslie Fairbanks singing as if his life depended on it. His voice was nasal, to the extent that it sounded as if there was a clothes peg clipped onto his nose. He sang with his eyes shut and his fists clenched, while Leslie Fairbanks followed on the accordion, his head tilted to one side, and a faint smile on his face. He appeared to have no objection at all to being usurped by this floor singer and I began to think it was probably something that happened every week. No one else in the place seemed to take the slightest notice of the new addition on stage. They just carried on drinking and shouting all the louder. This more or less put paid to any further talk, so I entertained myself by lining up empty beer glasses with each other across the table-top, watched with vague interest by Tam. It had been a fairly pleasant evening so far, but things began to change after Morag Paterson came to collect up a trayful of empties. It would probably have been alright if Jock hadn’t been too busy to do the job himself. Jock would have parted the crowd roughly and elbowed his way round the tables, grabbing five glasses with each hand and finding something to be grumpy about. Instead it was Morag who appeared, gently leaning over to ask if I’d mind passing the empty glasses. I hardly looked at her, but after she’d gone Tam began to slowly ferment. Several times I caught him staring at me and I had to pretend to be listening intently to Leslie Fairbanks and his partner, who were now in full flow. Tam had been drinking pints of heavy all night, and as he drained the latest one I thought I heard him say something like: “Well, it’s about time ex-foreman Tam Finlayson bought the new English foreman a drink, is it not?”
Whatever his intention had been when he rose to his feet, something must have got to Tam before he got to me, because instead of asking what I would like to drink, he just lunged at me across the table, so that several glasses went over. I leaned back to avoid him and next moment he had reared up and was standing before me yelling “C’mon, English bastards!” at the top of his voice.
As far as I knew I was the only English person in the place, so I stood up at my side of the table and waited to see what happened. Tam looked like he was about to make another lunge when Billy intervened.
“Tam, no!” he shouted.
“English bastards!” Tam screamed. It was odd the way he kept going on about ‘bastards’ in the plural. This suggested it was nothing personal.
Then Billy got Tam in a sort of bear-hug and they both toppled sideways onto the floor amongst the seething mass of drinkers. One or two people began jeering playfully.
Leslie Fairbanks, man of the moment, saw what happened but decided to press on during the disturbance, somehow managing to change to a much slower, more soothing tune without anybody noticing. This had the interesting side effect of causing his vocal accomplice to fall temporarily silent. In the resulting calm Tam and his brother resurfaced and were all smiles. Billy said something in Tam’s ear and put his arm round his shoulder.
The incident seemed to have been already forgotten by most of the bystanders. Their father, sitting at the bar, had turned round on his stool, vaguely aware of some commotion, but quickly lost interest and began to contemplate his drink again. My glass was amongst those that had been knocked over, and as a result it was now empty. As I forlornly stood it upright on the table, Tam settled down opposite me. Billy sat next to him, a large grin on his face.
“I’m sorry,” said Tam.
“That’s OK.”
“No, really. I’m very, very sorry.”
“Yeah, well.”
“C’mere.” Tam reached over the table and clasped my hand. Now he wanted to be my friend, my buddy.
“Like a drink?”
“Go on then.”
As Tam lurched off to the bar Billy said, “Don’t worry about Tam. If he goes like that again just come and get me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “What am I going to do with him when we get to England?”
Billy just shrugged.
There was a squeal over at the bar. Tam had managed to spill beer across the counter and most of it had gone over Morag Paterson. Despite the squeal she didn’t seem particularly upset. In fact, she was laughing. It was my beer, of course, that Tam had spilt, and after a while I realized he wasn’t coming back with another one. Eventually I went and bought a drink each for me and Billy. Making sure it was Jock who served me.
♦
Tam was late for work next day, so I sat in the truck with Richie, waiting for him to turn up.
“Go out last night?” I asked.
“Couldn’t afford it,” he replied, lighting a cigarette.
“Tam tells me you play the guitar.”
“Well, I’m still learning it really,” he said. “I’ve only had it three weeks.”
“What sort is it then?”
“Electric.”
Richie was not being very forthcoming, so I gave up trying to interview him about his hobbies. Instead we sat silently in the cab as it slowly filled with smoke. Eventually Tam arrived, failing to provide any excuse for his lateness, and we set off on what we hoped would be our last trip to Mr McCrindle’s. It was imperative we got his fence finished today at all costs, or we’d never hear the last of him.
He was nowhere to be seen when we arrived, which was a good start. He must have been occupied at another part of the farm. While Tam and Richie prepared the wire-tightening equipment I went off to take a measurement of the fence, something we’d forgotten to do the day before. This was simply a matter of running a measuring wheel along the entire length of the fence. A small meter at the side of the dev
ice clicked up 513 yards. (Donald had decided not to convert from yards to metres because, as he put it, most farmers were incapable of thinking metrically.) When I got back Tam asked me how long the fence was.
“513 yards,” I told him.
“I’ll measure it,” he announced, taking the wheel and setting off down the field. I let him get on with it as there was plenty of time to spare. When he came back the meter read 522. I don’t know how he achieved this figure, but I recorded it all the same. Now we could concentrate on getting Mr McCrindle’s new fence up to the required level of tension. Tam had elected to do the re-tightening. I didn’t protest as it was his fence officially, and he was supposed to be a good judge of torque. I sent Richie down to the bottom of the field to keep an eye on the job from that end, then all I had to do was stand and watch in my capacity as foreman.
The wire-tightening gear consisted of a wire-gripper and a chain winch. Tam began the process by anchoring the winch to the straining post at the start of the fence. This was a substantial piece of timber, dug deep into the ground and supported by a strut at forty-five degrees. He then fixed the gripper to the bottom wire and slowly tightened it by means of a handle which ‘walked’ link by link along the chain. When he was satisfied with the tension he tied the wire off at the post, and moved up to the next one. As Tam settled into his work the true form of the fence began to appear. The second wire was tightened, then the third, and fourth, each providing a new taut parallel line. It was beginning to look good. At last I could see how perfectly straight the line of posts was, and there was no sign of any weakening of the structure. Tam would pull his handle to the left, re-position his feet and pull to the right, and so on, until, slowly, the correct level of tension was reached. As usual Tam wore his rubber boots, and he was digging his heels hard into the ground to maintain his balance as he heaved on the handle. At last he came to the top and final wire. This was the most important one, especially in a fence intended to restrain cows, because of their tendency to lean over and eat the grass on the other side. It therefore had to be especially tight. Tam placed the gripper on the wire and carefully cranked the handle one way, then the other. And again one way, then the other. Very slowly now. One way, then the other. He paused.
“That should do it,” I said. The whole fence was humming under the strain.
“I think I’ll give it one more,” said Tam. He looked at me for a long moment. “We don’t want it going slack again, do we?”
“Suppose not.”
He planted his feet and began to heave carefully. He really was taking this to the limit this time. It was just as he got the handle about halfway that I noticed Mr McCrindle had joined us. I don’t know where he’d come from, but he was now standing directly behind Tam, watching him work. Maybe it was Mr McCrindle’s sudden appearance that caused Tam to lose his footing. I’m not really sure, it all happened so quickly. Mr McCrindle said something and Tam seemed to glance sideways. Next thing his balance had gone and he was jerked off his feet. The shock of the change in direction sent the chain snaking upwards for a moment. A moment just long enough for the gripper to release the wire and fly back towards Mr McCrindle. He was still speaking as it hit the side of his head.
It sounded to me like ‘Norbert’ or maybe ‘Noydle’. Whatever he was saying, the words trailed off as Mr McCrindle keeled over. I stepped forward to catch him, and discovered how difficult it can be to hold someone upright when they appear to have stopped trying. So I leant him against the fence.
Mr McCrindle had a very surprised look on his face. His eyes were wide open, but he was, apparently, dead.
∨ The Restraint of Beasts ∧
Three
Tam looked at Mr McCrindle and then turned to me. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said.
“I know you didn’t,” I replied.
“He shouldn’t have kept sneaking up on us.”
“Never mind that now.”
Any distant observer of this scene would have probably assumed that the three figures standing by the new fence were in deep conversation about something. In fact, there were only two participants in the conversation.
“What do you think he was saying?”
“Dunno,” said Tam. “Could’ve been ‘Nice work, boys,’ maybe.”
“Or ‘Not too tight, Tam’,” I suggested. “I didn’t catch the last bit.”
There was a bit of a breeze blowing that day. It rustled a nearby line of trees and caused Mr McCrindle to sway ever so slightly as he stood leaning against the wires.
Tam shivered and zipped up his jerkin.
“Here’s Rich,” he said.
We watched as Richie slowly trudged up the field in our direction, glancing every now and then at the fence.
“The top wire’s still slack,” he said as he joined us, and then “Oh, hello, Mr McCrindle.”
When there was no reply he turned and gave me a puzzled frown.
“Tam’s just accidentally killed Mr McCrindle,” I explained.
“Oh…er…oh,” he said, and looked at Mr McCrindle again.
“He must have come to see about getting his cows turned out,” remarked Tam.
We moved Mr McCrindle out of the way and leaned him against the truck so that we could get the fence completed properly. Tam cranked up the top wire and tied it off at the post. I noticed this time he didn’t take the tension quite as far as before.
When he’d finished we all stood and regarded the new fence, its wires shimmering in the cold afternoon light.
After a long silence Richie said, “What are we going to do with Mr McCrindle?”
“Well,” I replied. “I suppose we’d better bury him.”
This was my first major decision as foreman. Amongst the equipment in the back of the truck was a tool for digging post holes. It was made up of two long-handled spades coupled together to form a pair of tongs. The straining posts which anchored a fence at each end had to be set in deep, narrow holes, and this tool was perfect for the job. If we dug a hole a little deeper and wider than usual, there’d be plenty of room for Mr McCrindle.
“Let Richie dig it,” said Tam. “He’s best.”
With a bashful look of concentration on his face Richie made a cut into the surface, slicing out the turf and placing it to one side. Then he started working into the ground below. Each excavation was the same basic movement. He drove the digger into the bottom of the hole, worked the handles around to get a grip, then closed them together and lifted out the soil, which he deposited on a pile next to him.
I could see that Richie was working much faster than normally would be expected for this sort of task.
“Slow down a bit,” I said. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
He rested for a moment but soon pressed on again. There was no stopping him and he was quickly down into the undersoil. As he delved deeper he had to bend further and further over the hole, until finally he was holding the handles at arm’s length and could reach down no more. This was as far as Richie could go, so he stopped and straightened up.
“That’s it,” he said.
Tam and I took hold of Mr McCrindle and lowered him into the hole, feet first. We decided to leave his cap on.
Richie had just started shovelling the soil back when Tam made a suggestion.
“Why don’t we put a post in as well, to make it look more realistic?”
“We haven’t got any spare posts with us,” I said.
“There’s one lying in that ditch over there,” he replied.
“What’s it doing over there?”
“We had one left over when we built the fence, so we dumped it in that ditch.”
“But you’re supposed to take surplus timber away at the end of each job. Donald keeps a record of everything used, you know.”
Tam shrugged.
“Why didn’t you take it back?”
“Couldn’t be bothered.”
I considered his idea. “Won’t it look a bit funny, a post just standing h
ere on its own?”
“Not really,” he said. “Somebody might come and hang a gate on it one day.”
“Who?”
“I dunno…somebody.”
When I thought about it I agreed he was probably right. There were a lot of posts in the countryside which seemed to be there for no apparent purpose. Some had been waiting many years for a long-forgotten gate to be hung on them. Others started life as the straining posts of fences which, for some reason or other, were never completed. This spare post could join them.
So we fetched it from the ditch where it lay and put it in the hole with Mr McCrindle. Then we back-filled the soil and packed it tight. Tam was very gentle as he replaced the slices of turf and pressed them down with his boot. The finished job looked quite tidy. When we stood back it looked just like an ordinary gatepost. Maybe someone would indeed come along and hang a gate on it one day.
Tam rested his hand on the post. “Things like this are bound to happen from time to time,” he said.
After that there was nothing left to do, so we put all the gear in the back of the truck and got ready to leave. Already the light was beginning to fade. As dusk approached, the trees stirred and the rising breeze began to sing in the fence wires.
♦
On the way home a thought occurred to me.
“He was dead, wasn’t he?”
“I’m sure he was,” said Richie. “What about his cows?”
“They’ll be alright.”
♦
It was time to go to England. N°3 Gang were being dispatched on Tuesday morning at eight o’clock, and Robert had been given the job of breaking the news officially. I herded Tam and Richie into his office so that he could deliver a short speech.
“Hitherto you’ve carried out all your work on or near your home ground,” he began. “This does not mean, however, that any particular precedent is thereby established. Market forces do not recognize feudal boundaries, and if contracts arise further afield then clearly Mohammed must go to the mountain. You also need to bear in mind that building a fence is a combined social and technical exercise…”